


firestarter

by poetictragedy



Series: thirty prompts [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Oral Sex In The Woods, Pyromania, pyrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetictragedy/pseuds/poetictragedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Argent is a sixteen year old boy that's in love with fire. He thinks of it as art, of creating something beautiful and having it be destroyed all at the same time. No one understands him. At least not until he meets a boy, Peter, who just so happens to have a thing for criminals. He follows Chris into the woods and watches him set his fires, learning a shocking secret about the boy.</p><hr/><p>Fire is beautiful and powerful in the way that it can create or destroy something in a matter of seconds, with the tiniest flame. It’s all in the hands of whoever’s holding the lighter, the match, the candle. Having the power to decide between creating and destroying is a rush. </p><p>Chris doesn’t create or destroy; he does both. Every fire he sets is a creation that leaves destruction in it’s wake. It’s art from start to finish and he takes pride in the portraits he burns into tree trunks; the patterns he sears into the ground; the half burned, half alive leaves that he piles together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	firestarter

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: flame
> 
> I apologize for any mistakes you find.

That soft clicking noise the hinges make when the lid is opened sends a shiver down his spine. When he puts his thumb on the flint wheel and pushes down, feeling the rough metal scrape against his skin, that makes his hands shake with excitement. But what really does it for him, though, is when the wick ignites and the flame wavers in the wind. 

Fire is beautiful and powerful in the way that it can create  _or_  destroy something in a matter of seconds, with the tiniest flame. It’s all in the hands of whoever’s holding the lighter, the match, the candle. Having the power to decide between creating and destroying is a rush. 

Chris doesn’t create or destroy; he does both. Every fire he sets is a creation that leaves destruction in it’s wake. It’s art from start to finish and he takes pride in the portraits he burns into tree trunks; the patterns he sears into the ground; the half burned, half alive leaves that he piles together.

Not everyone would agree with him. He sets fires, leaves them, and the cops come to find him a few yards away, setting yet another. They’ve taken him in countless times and pitied him because he came from a broken home.

Gerard Argent is a drunk and half crazy when he’s sober. He ran Chris’ mother off and, when she was old enough, his older sister, Kate left to get away from him. It’s just the old man and his sixteen year old son, who’s hardly around long enough for the drunk to notice.

So, Sheriff Hale lets him go with a warning, every single time, even though the whole police department knows that Chris is just going to do it again. The moment he leaves the station, they know they’re going to find another fire, another piece of “art” left for them.

In a way, Chris is thankful that the police don’t hold him or decided to charge him with anything. He’s even more thankful that no one says a word to his father, who would go into a drunken, blind rage and probably beat him worse than he ever has.

Chris tries not to think about that but it fuels his rage, makes him start bigger fires. These come in the middle of the night, in a part of the woods no one goes to, and he listens to the branches crackle. Most nights, when he comes out to the preserve to make art, Chris brings empty bottles of whiskey and tosses them into the flames.

The bottles pop and send glass flying a dozen different ways. He watches the glass heat up, with awe, and just barely makes it to safety before the explode.

One night, though, Chris starts a fire a little too close to someone’s home and they call the sheriff. He doesn’t even try to run or look guilty, just sits at the base of a tree while listening to the dogs bark, signaling that they found him.

“What are you doing out here, Argent?” Sheriff Hale asks and Chris puts a hand up to shield his eyes away from the bright light in his face. He rolls a shoulder and stands up, moving his hand down, letting the German Sheppard smell his fingers.

“Making art,” he replies, just like he always does, and he doesn’t even protest when the sheriff wraps a hand around his bicep. They walk through the woods quietly and Chris can still smell the smoke of his now smoldering fire. It makes him shiver and by the time he gets to the squad car, he’s hard. 

The ride back to the station is quiet and Chris keeps his hands on his lap, idly cupping himself through his jeans. By the time they get to their destination, he’s on the verge of coming but doesn’t get to finish before he’s hauled out into the cool night air.

Chris follows the sheriff into the station and into his office, wincing a little when the older man slams the door shut behind him. It smells like smoke in the office, like wood burning, and Chris bites his lip.

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

“Sir, I — ” Chris starts, before he’s interrupted.

“Call me James,” the sheriff says and he smiles.

The thought of calling an authority figure by their first name makes his stomach twist uneasily but Chris just shrugs. “Okay, James, I was just out there making art. Like I said,” he answers.

“Fire isn’t art, kid.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sheriff,” the boy answers as he sits down, thankful that his hard on went away. Explaining his infatuation with fire was one thing but having to tell the sheriff he got hard from it? Well, that was a totally different can of worms that Chris never wanted to open.

James sits on the edge of his desk and sighs. “Then explain it to me.”

Blinking, Chris looks up at the sheriff and shakes his head. He isn’t saying no, of course, but just shaking his head to say that it’s hard to explain. The sheriff just looks at him, giving him an expression that’s almost fatherly, and Chris swallows hard.

“Fire is a thing of creation and destruction. You can make art or you can  _totally_  fuck someone’s life up with it,” he explains and lifts a hand, running it through his hair, watching ashes fall from the locks. “I do both, at the same time, and there’s no harm in it. Plus, you guys get to see what I did and that’s what makes it art. Having an audience, people who appreciate it but in a different way than I do.”

The sheriff hums and shakes his head. “Don’t do it again at night or I will throw you in jail,” he says, using his stern voice that Chris has heard a dozen or more times. “You’re free to go.”

Without saying another word, Chris scrambles to his feet and nods to Sheriff Hale before going to the door. He stops, with his hand on the doorknob, and turns back.

“What is it?”

“Why don’t you ever arrest me for the fires?” Chris asks, though he isn’t complaining because he doesn’t want to go to jail. He just wants to create art.

James shrugs and moves to sit behind his desk. “You’re a good kid, Chris, and I know you’re not doing this maliciously. You always put the fires out and not one of them has spread, causing more damage,” he answers.

That’s enough to sate Chris and he nods, moving out into the hall. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and starts toward the exit, bumping into someone on his way. The other boy gets knocked back and falls onto the floor, sprawling out in a way that would have made Chris smile, if he hadn’t been the one to knock him down.

“Shit,” he says and moves over, holding a hand out to the other boy. “I didn’t see you, dude. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” mystery boy replies and laughs, putting his hand in Chris’ before standing up. Once they’re standing at eye-level, Chris notices the other boy has bright blue irises and he shudders. “I’m Peter,” blue-eyed boy says and he smiles brightly, causing Chris’ heart to thump wildly.

Snapping out of it, Chris smiles back and nods. “Chris,” he answers and licks his lips, shoving his hands back into his hoodie pockets. “I really am sorry about knocking you over.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Peter waves a hand dismissively and chuckles. “I get knocked over a lot when I’m not paying attention, so it’s okay.”

“Still…” Chris sighs and is about to say something else when the sheriff’s voice fills his ears. He says Peter’s name and — oh. Peter as in Peter Hale. Of course, he should have known. “You should, uh, get going.”

Peter nods and licks his lips, smiling as he walks away, his shoulder brushing along Chris’. That touch sends a spark down the boy’s spine and he shivers again, moving down the hall. He goes outside and stands in the fresh air, breathing in and out deeply before deciding it’s late enough to go home.

Once he’s at home, Chris climbs the tree in his backyard before jumping onto the roof, teetering for a moment. He eventually makes it into his bedroom and strips out of his clothes, climbing into bed with his Zippo.

Chris flicks his wrist and opens the lighter, snapping the lid back down. This is how he does it mostly every night: he lays in bed with one hand on his cock, a lighter in the other, and he gets off to the sound of the lid opening, the wick igniting, and the flame that comes. 

This time, though, Chris thinks about the blue-eyed boy from the station and imagines setting a fire with Peter’s lips around his cock. He comes hard, his vision blackening for a moment, and falls asleep with a content smile on his face.

*****

Three days go by before Chris starts another fire. He sates himself with burning things in the bathroom and watching the ashes from in the sink while his father is downstairs, drinking himself into a stupor. But then it’s not enough for him, so he decides to go into the woods after school to start a big fire.

As soon as the bell rings, Chris is out of his seat and moving into the hallway, bouncing slightly on his feet. He can already feel the heat from the flames, can hear the crackling of the leaves and branches, and he sprints out of the school as quickly as possible.

Only he doesn’t know that someone’s following him. 

Chris walks the whole way to the preserve, which isn’t far away from the high school, and he makes his way into the deepest part of the woods, a place where no one goes. Except for him and maybe a few hunters, when it’s hunting season.

When he gets to his favourite spot, Chris drops his bag onto the ground and starts gathering things. Branches, sticks, leaves, a few plastic bottles that either got dragged down by an animal or that someone had left behind.

The piles are small and in a circle, with a homemade wick connecting each other them. It took Peter an hour to wrap cotton around a length of rope and he carefully put it in a circle, piling debris on top of it — only after he doused it in lighter fluid.

With his piles made, Chris grabs a book of matches from his back pocket and takes one out. He strikes it against the side of the box and throws it onto one side of the rope, moaning when it ignites. The flame goes both ways, hitting the piles, and Chris bites his lip.

Then he hears it: a branch snapping behind him. Thinking he’s going to get caught, Chris grabs his bag and stuffs his supplies into it, his eyes scanning the woods for any cops. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his ears and he nearly drops his things when someone steps out from behind a tree.

“Jesus!” Chris yells, falling onto the ground beside his fire. He can feel the flames near his skin and bites his lip, cock already hardening in his jeans.

Peter laughs and comes forward, almost bounding to Chris, before stopping just a foot short of the other boy. “I’m sorry,” he says but the tone of his voice and the way he’s snickering tells Chris that he isn’t.

“What’re you doing out here? Aren’t you the sheriff’s kid?”

“I am but my dad doesn’t tell me what to do all the time,” Peter answers and Chris just smirks at him and thinks,  _smartass_. “What are you doing out here, though?”

Snorting, Chris moves to his feet and turns so he’s facing away from Peter, not wanting him to see the bulge in his jeans. “Making art,” he says and bites his lip, watching the first two piles turn to ash quickly. The wick ignites on the other sides and Chris groans.

“Cool.” 

Chris blinks and turns to glare at Peter. “ _Cool_? You think this is cool?”

“Yeah, sure, fire is awesome. Why — should I not think it’s cool?” Peter asks, his eyebrows pulling together. “Because it is.”

“No, it’s just…” Trailing off, Chris shrugs and turns to look at the fire again before bending to pick his bag up. He rummages through it and grabs a few old notes. “No one ever thinks it’s cool.”

There’s a moment of silence as Peter watches Chris ball the pieces of paper up before throwing them into the flames. They catch fire immediately and start to turn black. 

“Oh.” Peter purses his lips together and sets his bag on the ground, propping it up against the base of a tree. “Well, I do,” he says and laughs, the sound being one of the most beautiful things Chris has ever heard. After the sound of a fire crackling, of course.

A smile forms on Chris’ face as he watches the second set of piles disappear, the last pieces of the wick igniting. He steps closer to Peter and swallows, desperately wanting to be alone so he can jerk off.

Neither of them say anything for a moment, not until the fire snuffs itself out, and Chris moves to stomp on the rope. He does this to make sure the fire is really out and that the rope won’t ignite again. When he turns around, he looks at Peter, whose eyes go down to his crotch.

“Shit.” Chris blushes and swallows hard, moving his hands in front of him.

Peter grins and looks at the other boy’s face. “You get hard from that?”

“Well….” 

“You do.” Despite his words, Peter doesn’t sound like he’s teasing Chris and that makes him feel slightly better. 

After a moment, Chris clears his throat and says, “Does that bother you?”

“What, that you get hard from fire?” Chris nods his head, his whole face turning pink. “No, of course not. I’d actually offer to help, if you’d want it, I mean.”

“Yes.” The word comes out so fast that Chris thinks he didn’t say it at all but the look on Peter’s face says that he did. “I mean… if you want to help me.”

The other boy makes a face, like he’s thinking about that, and comes over, stepping into the circle of ashes and rope. He drops to his knees and bats Chris’ hands away before undoing his jeans slowly. The denim gets tugged down and Peter pulls Chris’ boxers down to his knees before wrapping a hand around his cock.

Chris thinks about what’s going on and whimpers. “But — why would you help me? You barely  _know me_.”

“I don’t know you at all,” Peter corrects and hums, giving Chris’ length a languid stroke. “But I’m doing this because you’re hot and the fact that you get off to fire is hot.”

“Seriously?”

“Mmmhmm.” Smirking up at Chris, Peter winks and leans in to lick the head of his cock, dragging the tip of his tongue along the underside. He laughs when the other boy shudders and moves back up, taking the head into his mouth.

When he feels Peter’s mouth on him, Chris closes his eyes and moves a hand to the back of his head, gripping tightly. He breathes in deeply, taking in the smell of smoke, and moans. There’s a part of him — a huge part — that knows he’s not going to last long. A few minutes, tops.

Before he can warm Peter, though, Chris feels the entire length of his cock go down the other boy’s throat and, goddamn, Peter must have had a lot of practice to be able to do that. He tips his head back and moans, the noise echoing in the woods, and he pushes his hips forward.

Peter sucks his cock nice and slow, cheeks hollowing out as he comes up before going back down. He strokes what he can’t and moves his free hand along Chris’ thigh, inching it closer to his balls. With feather light touches, Peter moves his fingers along Chris’ balls and sucks him harder, the noises the other boy is making encouraging him to go faster.

The only thing that could make this better, Chris thinks, is if the rope were still on fire and the leaves were cracking. If the branches were popping and the wood was snapping. He lets out a strangled noise, half Peter’s name and half a indistinguishable noise, and bucks his hips forward, that thought pushing him over the edge.

Chris comes far too quickly and he shudders, feeling Peter’s throat work around him as he swallows. And the only thing he can think about is how Peter’s mouth is the second most amazing thing he’s ever gotten off to. 

After a moment, Peter pulls back and licks his lips, pushing himself to his feet. He doesn’t say a word — and neither does Chris — before leaning in to press their lips together. The kiss is short and tastes purely of Chris, mixed with hints of mango gum, and that has his knees buckling.

Peter eases away and smiles. “How was that?”

“So — so fucking good,” Chris answers and licks his lips, tasting himself and Peter and his gum on his skin. “You should let me return the favor.”

“Nah, I’m good.” There’s a smirk on Peter’s face and the sound of a zipper being undone fills Chris’ ears. He looks down between them just in time to watch Peter push his jeans down, along with his boxers.

The sight of Peter’s cock makes Chris tremble and he swallows, looking up at the other boy before kissing him roughly. He moves his hands to Peter’s hips and holds onto him, feeling him moan into the kiss, the vibrations making Chris twitch.

When the kiss is broken, Peter is whimpering and moaning, stroking his cock quickly, eyes rolling back. It’s one of the hottest things Chris has ever seen and he moves his hand down to help, cupping Peter’s balls before rolling them between his fingers.

“Chris!” Peter cries out, gripping the other boy’s arm tightly. He continues to stroke himself, fucking into his hand hard, and comes a few minutes later with Chris’ name on his lips.

Both boys fall onto the ground, exhausted, and they stay like that for a moment before Peter stands. He pulls his jeans up and wipes the come on his t-shirt, smiling lazily down at Chris. Once the other boy is standing and his jeans are done up, Peter kisses him slowly for a moment and then pulls away.

“Are you going to burn tonight?” Peter asks as he moves to grab his bag.

“Maybe,” comes Chris’ answer and he smirks, watching Peter walk on his wobbly legs. “If you want to come by, I live on — “

“I know where you live,” the other boy interrupts and smirks. “I also know your phone number, so if you get a call or text from a strange number, it’s me.”

Blinking rapidly, Chris stares at Peter as he walks away and yells, “How do you know my number?”

“Read my dad’s files!” Peter yells back and laughs before running away. He disappears a few minutes later, leaving Chris with his ashes and a smile on his face.

*****

Fire can create and destroy things. It can bring people together or tear them apart. Make friends become enemies, strangers become friends and then more. 

Chris creates art and destruction with his fires. He always leaves something behind, something for the next person to see, and that next person is always Peter. Peter always gets what Chris is trying to say to him and always finds him in the woods, with ash on his hands, playing with a Zippo


End file.
